


One look from you

by andwhatyousaid, carbonbased000



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: 2020 Blonde Pete Wentz, First Kiss, Instagram, M/M, basically chat!fic, basically not!fic, blonde pete wentz, implied confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27745849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid/pseuds/andwhatyousaid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/carbonbased000/pseuds/carbonbased000
Summary: While working on their next album, Patrick finds out Pete went blonde through Instagram along with everyone else.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 24
Kudos: 46





	One look from you

Patrick’s been writing with Pete for a few weeks, but now they’re taking a break; a planned break, the normal sort. Patrick gives his typical line, that he needs some time to feel out the shape of the songs with his own two hands, and Pete cracks a joke about too much solo time with the demos, but otherwise respects it, leaving Patrick at peace in the studio.

But the thing is, this time — Patrick’s already kind of missing him, as though he’d just gotten him back. Which is weird, maybe, because he hadn’t thought to truly miss Pete during the entire months of lockdown where they’d only texted (between both of their chronic night owl tendencies, fueled by bouts of under and hyper productivity) or talked on the phone, though not very often. Now it feels different, somehow, and rather than parsing that out further, he pushes it to the back of his mind, into its trunk, and focuses instead on the songs at hand.

Or, he tries to, at least, until one morning while poking through his work-related emails and trying to make a list of things to do for the day, he gets a message from Joe; the subject line says ‘???’ and the body’s just a link. And that’s how he finds out that Pete has— Pete is. Fucking blonde. And not just a dirty blonde that might blend with his natural color, but a platinum fucking blonde. Patrick, arrested in his tangled bedsheets, stares and stares, but the only thought stuttering through his mind is _why didn’t he tell me_. It’s not like the solo studio time meant they’ve cut-off all communication (see the traded late night emails over a lyric or errant chord), but then again. Why should Pete have, really? Patrick takes a breath in, feeling oddly like he’s recovering from a sucker-punch to the sternum.

And the more breaths he takes, the easier it gets. He keeps working on their music, and he absolutely does _not_ under any circumstances think about Pete’s blonde hair which makes him look so— _pretty_? He’s always been pretty, so that can’t be it. What’s different? Is it the contrast between the lack of color in his hair and those burning eyes of his that have always been a weakness of Patrick’s?

Anyway, he’s not thinking about it, no sir— that is, until Pete posts a story of himself playing the _piano_ while insisting on being blonde, which Patrick sees because he has an (effectively uninhabited) Instagram account, apparently just for this purpose.

He’s just— having the hardest time repressing the fact that Pete is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He’s always known, but right now, it’s like he can’t forget it long enough to be a functioning human anymore. And he feels awful, because he thinks he might have finally broken just because Pete looks really... soft? And more feminine than he ever has? (Though in Patrick’s defense, it’s not like he’s averse to the stubble. Such a pleasing contrast with the bleach job.) So, he freaks out and freaks out over the fact that he’s freaking out, until one day it’s time for Pete to come back to the studio because they need to write some more.

When Pete walks back into the studio, he’s, of course, still blonde and hiding part of his hair under his beanie in combo with his weirdly oversized sweater; as he crosses into the booth, he lowers his ridiculous shades, standing there on the threshold, and says, “Hey,” like nothing has changed, but everything has changed, can’t he see?

Patrick wants to burst with it, wants to rein Pete in by his stupid cashmere collar and his long blonde hair and—

“Hey,” Patrick says back, resisting the urge to press the back of his wrist to his mouth as if something inside will pour out if he doesn’t, his eyes feeling hot and bright. And magnetically trained onto Pete’s face. Patrick can’t stop imagining the overlay of that damned Insta video— the crisp sunlight in the background and Pete’s newly awoken, soft, concentrating yet mildly vexed face, the abstract art behind him on the wall. The melody comes fizzling in and out of Patrick’s ears as Pete says, “So,” throwing his shades onto the mixing board, “what d’you got for me?”

And Patrick tries desperately to play it cool, even though all he can think about is tearing off that stupid beanie and burying his hands in Pete’s hair and— but he plays it cool, he is the coolest, a professional, a composer completely composed. As he plays Pete the demo he has so far, Pete nods, all serious and focused and furrowing his brow, and inevitably Patrick’s suddenly transported back to the stupid video again, so he can’t help it, can he, when he says, "Good job with the Debussy, by the way," and then wishes the floor would swallow him whole.

"Huh, you saw that?" Pete says, and then he does this half-laugh, half-scoff thing that Patrick’s pretty sure means he’s hiding something. “Didn’t even know you knew what Instagram was,” he mutters, looking down and then up at Patrick through his lashes from under that _hat_ that he hasn’t taken off yet. Patrick kind of wishes the A/C was broken, but instead it’s pleasantly cool and Pete can totally wear his stupid hat comfortably.

They’re sitting next to each other on the two rolling chairs by the computer, both perched on the edge of their seats and leaning toward the screen like a couple of moths who’d really like to burn, their knees barely touching, and suddenly it feels different from the millions of accidental and not-so-accidental touches that have happened over the years. Suddenly, Patrick has to fucking do something about it.

"I saw," he says, in answer, and rolls his chair as close as it can go. "You were good," he adds, pressing the rest of his leg against Pete’s. "Was that for me?" he asks, finally, so close that he can smell sun-warmed skin and some exotic, heady scent Patrick doesn’t know but that makes him think of frankincense.

He can’t help from tracking how Pete’s eyes flutter like they’re resisting shutting — like maybe he doesn’t want to look away but it’s too much to take, too. Pete leans imperceptibly closer, and says, caught on a breath, “Every song is for you. About you.” As if he’s admitting something that Patrick already knows.

And if that’s true, if he already knows, if he’s always known, why does this feel like stepping into the void of space, when it’s only bridging the few inches between their lips, filling them with his own shuddering breath and the most obvious word he can think of, the only one he can remember right now?

“Pete,” he sighs, and Pete turns to him, warm amber eyes fully trained on his own now, and he’s never failed to do this for Patrick, not ever— right when Patrick thought he’d stay frozen, looking at what he really wanted from the outside forever, Pete has always encouraged him over the edge. He smiles at Patrick now, radiant, like he’s not afraid. Patrick’s heart swells with bravery, or possibly foolishness, and even so he stumbles, falters, but yes. He presses his lips against that smile.

Pete makes a sound that Patrick wants to record and save forever. He’ll hide it under Joe’s overlaid guitars in the demo he’s been working on, which he’s going to make the first single for their new album so that the whole fucking world can listen to the wrecked sound Pete makes as Patrick kisses him.

Pete’s lips are so soft under his own and when Patrick thought about this — because he has, oh, about a million times more than he’s been trying to admit — he’d figured Pete would kiss messy and showy, but in actual reality he simply lets himself be kissed, and Patrick tilts his head a little, changing the angle to make it better, if such a thing is possible. Better— he licks against the seam of his lips and Pete opens up for him on a sigh. Better— Patrick breaks away for a second, leans back to push Pete’s hat down and off, finally finally _finally_ sliding his fingers through the maddening golden hair. Pete watches him with twinkling eyes, opens his mouth to say something, looking so very pleased with himself, and it’s not by far the first time Patrick’s wanted to shut Pete Wentz up, he has a whole toolbox of ways to do that by now, but one more couldn’t hurt. He drops to his knees.

Pete’s jaw slams shut.


End file.
